I wake up, looking out the window. Mother’s day. Supposedly the day where we cherish the person who gives us life, who nurtured us, who made sure we had our needs tended to. I wonder how it is for others, to see one’s mother as a being of love, rather than a totem of fear. It has been difficult to differentiate between reality and fiction, truth and lies, good from bad, ever since I was a kid.
I grab some bacon, dropping two pieces onto the sizzling pan. She would never let me do this. I could be starving, wanting to at least try to make some eggs to eat, praying and hoping she didn’t hear all the way from her locked room. Sometimes she caught me, ripping me away from the pan, saying that I should let her do it, since I was going to harm myself.
I look to my left arm, where a couple of dark spots paint the edges of my forearm. Maybe she was right then, but now I find myself struggling to eat anything else. I move the bacon from the pan onto my plate, and bring out the eggs to cook on the same pan. It sizzles, dancing around up and down, bacon grease spraying onto my shirtless body. I let it. I deserve it. At least that’s what she thinks.
I take out the eggs, setting them alongside the bacon. Eggs and bacon. My favorite breakfast. My only breakfast. I don’t think I’ve tried cereal or pancakes or waffles or french toasts or whichever other forms of breakfast in years. Not since she made them. She never taught me, so I do not make them.
I season my breakfast, filling my cup with apple juice. I’m almost ready for the day. Just not for Mother’s day.
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